


Off the Record

by sepulchralseneschal



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, F/M, Light BDSM, Semi-public masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension, brief interludes of canon-typical violence, but only in said fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23513950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepulchralseneschal/pseuds/sepulchralseneschal
Summary: The Qunari Spy and the rebel mage have nothing in common except sex. At least, that's what they tell themselves. They tell others even less.(My plan is that this will have multiple chapters spanning the game and DLC, but I'm terrible at finishing WIPs so i'll try to make every chapter a snippet that stands alone.)
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Iron Bull, Iron Bull/Female Trevelyan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	Off the Record

**Author's Note:**

> Nights in the Orlesian Desert are long and empty, punctuated by sudden bouts of fighting. Tamsin Trevelyan is high strung and sexually repressed. Bull is observant af and far from bashful. Both are begging for a distraction.

The Iron Bull tried to sleep in a tent that night. It was the smart thing to do; at night the winds of western Orlais turned blistering cold and tore through the water-worn tunnels of the oasis at impossible speeds, kicking up sand that stung the eyes and bit the skin.

But the mood of the place was heavy dread. It seeped into his bones like nothing he’d ever felt before, and it was worse indoors. Hidden behind a roof and four walls, sounds were disembodied, and grew sinister: A tusket’s bellow echoing off the stone could easily be a giant; the cry of a fennec, a banshee; the wind, a dozen despair demons descending on him. Whenever he began to drift off, one of these things or a million others would leap at him from the back of his brain and he would start awake, sweating, ready to strike at the shadows in the corners of the tent. So he moved outside and sat against a boulder facing the fire, so his eye would, hopefully, not play tricks on him. 

Solas slept soundly. It was his self-proclaimed profession, after all. He had said not to worry, that the leaden resonance in the air was just an enchantment, a ward set to keep people away from an old, important place, but that was no comfort. Whoever set that ward was likely a powerful enough mage to do other deadly things to the land around them. And what if the ward guarded something that, itself, was dangerous?

Varric slept too. Not without complaint, of course, but he got there after he aired his grievances. Bull supposed it was easier for him, having no dreams that the curse could poison into nightmares.

The Herald, however, was suffering just as he was. She stayed in her tent, but every few minutes or so she would toss and turn, throwing blankets and pillows about with mounting frustration. Several times he almost called out to her, invited her to the fire for a drink to calm the nerves, but each time he thought of it, she’d settle down for a stretch long enough for him to think she’d finally conquered that feeling. Then she’d turn again. She should have been less bothered by all this magic shit, being an expert herself. A savant, his dossier had said. Still, he couldn’t blame her. She had a lot more on her plate than any of them, and a lot less experience dealing with it. Sleep probably didn’t come easy for her on even the calmest nights. 

In his report to the Ben Hassrath, he wrote that she was nothing to worry about. It wasn’t the most accurate statement - Tamsin Trevelyan gave her enemies plenty to worry about when she was on her game - but the heart of it was true. She was not about to lead a revolution of mages to create the second Tevinter Imperium, and she was _not_ going to cause a great awakening of Andrastrians to rise up and begin an Exalted March against Par Vollen. She was bookish, reserved, and pragmatic. And absolutely refused leadership unless it was forced on her. Her so called charisma was a lie stemming from the myths that swirled around her, nursed by the Nightingale for her own ends. And beneath that public mask was another, more personal one. Her motives and morals lay alongside the rest of her emotions, locked behind a door so secure it required who-knew how many keys to open.

He smiled at the timely metaphor and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the rock. Despite his superiors’ misgivings, he could gather information just as capably in the open as in secret. He already had some of those keys: an embarrassed chuckle here; an admission of bitterness there. He would accumulate them one by one if he had to. He opened his ears to the sounds around him. Not the distant, distorted ones that mocked his fears, but the closer comforts. The irregular snap of canvas buffeted by the wind, the crackling wood in the campfire, the rasp of cicadas in the shrub, desperate to mate. 

The Herald shifted again: the heavy flop of a foot; the crunch of a heel digging into exposed sand; a defeated, decisive sigh.

And then…

And then smaller sounds. Sly, surreptitious, so low that he almost didn’t catch them beneath the snap-pop of twigs burning in an ash bed. The sound of skin against skin, slipping under cloth. Fingers making contact with something soft and slick. Making contact again. And again. A whisper of fabric as a knee bent and leg opened. A push of air out the mouth, preparing.

Well that was one way to put yourself to sleep. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

Her fingers were going at a steady pace already. No warm ups, no exploring. Down to business. Made sense, but he was a little disappointed. 

He found himself stretching his senses to hear her breath, gauge her arousal. She held it in mostly - trying to be quiet - until she couldn’t stand it anymore and let it out in a rush, shaking with the effort of controlling her lungs. As her excitement built, a thicker wet joined the quiet chorus. Rhythmic and deliberate. More fingers, penetrating. A soft mewl slipped out as she exhaled, not sweet or plaintive or relieved. It was squirming; tortured.

Iron Bull’s cock, which was already half-stiff, leapt another inch in the air. He gave it a firm squeeze and hummed appreciatively.

From the tent, the Herald’s breath hitched. The wet sounds stopped

Bull paused. He’d figured she would be too distracted to hear that. Attentive behind that mask.

Fabric scraping again. Scrambling. 

Then scrambling of a different sort. Desperate. Distant, coming closer. Bull stood and grabbed his axe, peering out into the black. In a little over a minute the sound was loud enough to wake the others, and as they all stirred in their bedrolls, a figure emerged from the shadows.

Flesh and blood. An Inquisition scout, her horn slapping against her waterskin as she scooted up the ladder to the camp. She came to an abrupt halt when she saw Bull and his axe. 

He dropped its head to the ground and leaned on the handle. “Any news?”

She regarded him warily, taking a few short breaths, and then looked behind him as the Herald burst from her tent.

“Well, what is it?” She barked when she saw the scout’s uniform. “Some of us are trying to sleep.” Her ears and cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone with agitation. Anyone who didn’t know better would chalk it up to anger.

Bull couldn’t help but smirk.

“Rift, Ma’am.” The scout was appropriately apologetic. “Opened up into the mining pit. Demons pouring in.”

The report was sobering enough to wipe the smirk from his face. The Herald and he exchanged a glance, and he nodded, pretending not to notice the echo of accusation in her eyes.

“Those tunnels are labyrinthine,” Solas said as he slipped outside. “It is anyone’s guess where they may emerge.”

“Great,” Varric replied. From his tent there were sounds of bending wood and mechanical twangs as he began to tune Bianca. “Nothing like fighting demons in the middle of the night with sand three miles up your asscrack.”

“Impressive asscrack,” Bull said.

Varric made some sarcastic retort, but Travelyan cut him off before Bull could catch it. “Come on, armor up everyone. The sooner we get to it, the sooner we get back to bed.”

\---

At first it seemed like it was going to be hard fought. They plopped down into the middle of the pit only to be ambushed by wraiths, which floated out from tunnels on all sides. Between Solas and the Herald, however, they were all burned or frozen out in a matter of seconds. They formed an ambush of their own from those same tunnels, and they were able to dispel most of the remaining demons before they even materialized. Bull and Varric had frustratingly little left to do. The only thing he got to chop at was a terror, which shot out from the ground and knocked the Herald on her back.

He was there in a flash, interposing between them like the bodyguard he was hired to be. He swung his axe up into the hollow beneath its rib cage where it sunk into withered organs. The creature let out a delicious gurgle as one of its lungs collapsed. It began to fall forward towards him, and as he grabbed its face with his hand, another hand grabbed his ankle. He looked down, preparing to kick, but it was the Herald, sliding between his legs and reaching up. The green light in her palm slithered out towards the rift and lashed around the yawning hole. The air began to press heavy on his ears and his skull buzzed, and the rope of light thickened, expanded, until he could feel it undulating against his inner thigh.

Then the Herald gave a sharp yank and the rift burst like a blister, and the air went dead and dark. soft slaps surrounded them as the shreds of the veil fell to the floor, only to blow away into nothingness the next second. The terror dissolved into ash and Bull swayed forward as the weight of its body disappeared. The Herald dragged herself to her feet, using his belt for purchase. Then she patted his arm and breathed out some half-formed words of gratitude before shuffling towards Solas, who was kneeling at the spot where the veil had sundered.

Bull watched her walk away. He shook his head and stretched his jaw, and his ears popped. The skin on his leg was still sensitive where the veil energy had brushed by. A chill ran down his spine at the thought of it, and the thought of being the one charged with controlling such horror. The Herald's hand, still gleaming, reached back and swept the sand off her ass where she had fell.

\---

By the time they made it back to camp the sky was just beginning to lighten from black to deep blue. Still dark by all accounts, but with victory fresh in his heart and his body growing sluggish in the after-battle fog, he’d likely be fine in the tent now. As they cleaned up together, Bull made a point of forcing small talk with his boss, who tended go grow silent after a battle.

“I think that was our most tedious fight so far,” he said brightly.

“Mmm,” she agreed, her sardonic drawl extending the sound. She was silent for long enough that Bull assumed the conversation was over, but then she said, “Frankly, I’m disappointed. You’d think a place called the Forbidden Oasis could scare up a few more terrors.”

Her tone was casual; too tired to play the academic. He took advantage of his chance. “I know! The entire time we were fighting, I was thinking ‘damn demons woke me up for this?’”

The Herald's eyes narrowed slightly. “You were sleeping, then?” She asked. She looked at him as she pressed a wet cloth to her neck. Water streamed down her chest and disappeared into her cleavage. He didn’t look. Did she do that on purpose? He didn’t think he had it in her; too straightforward. Maybe. 

But he was a better liar than she gave him credit for.

“Of course,” he said, innocent. And then, because he knew he couldn’t pull off innocent, he turned suspicious. “Weren’t you?”

The act was meant to relieve her; convince her she hadn’t been caught, and he achieved the second goal, but not the first. Instead of relief, a strong wave of guilt washed over her; made her nostrils flare and her throat tighten. And it wasn’t that general sex-guilt that Andrastians seemed to like to flay themselves with. No. He caught her eyes and she quickly looked away and swallowed, lips parting afterwards, and he knew exactly who she’d been thinking of when she fucked herself.

The whole thing was flattering, and more than a little funny. After all, nothing wrong with a few fantasies among your fellow soldiers. He wasn’t surprised that she was mortified, though. People from the continent made it so hard for themselves, tying sex up with feelings and making themselves vulnerable. Exposed. Doubly so for a circle mage, where unbridled emotion earned you the Rite of Tranquility, or worse: possession. It must be a deeply ingrained fear. Her withdrawal behind that mask made a whole lot of sense.

He turned his attention back to the waterbasin, releasing her from her obligation to answer and giving her space to work through her mortification. To push it further would be cruel, and he liked to have consent for cruelty.

Once he’d wiped away the worst of the dust and sweat he resigned himself to an hour or two of fitful sleep. He glanced at the Herald, expecting her to do the same, but instead she settled onto a cushion in front of her tent with a quill and book.

She noticed when his step faltered and she shrugged shyly. She wasn’t fully over her guilt. “Best write it while it’s still fresh. Otherwise you sacrifice accuracy, you know?”

“I do.” Bull grumbled. There was a Hissrad on the other side of the sea still waiting to know how the war affected trade routes across the Frostback. He pushed the task out of his head and tipped a horn to her. “Night, Boss.”

Her answer was a wordless scoff. She looked to the east, where the blue was thinning, brightening before the morning Sun.

Bull’s tent was Thedosian in design. He had to crouch to enter it, and when he did, one of his horns caught on the corner of the doorway and yanked his head to the side. He swore. He would have to make sure he got his own tent for future expeditions.

Off to the side, Tamsin stifled a laugh, and began to write.

He dropped to his knees once inside. He scrubbed his teeth with salt and clove, kicked off his shoes, and stripped down for bed.

The scratching of the Herald's quill came to an abrupt end, as if she had heard something and was listening intently for more. 

Bull listened too, but all he heard were Varric’s snores and the ever present howling of the wind. Out of instinct he looked towards the Herald or where he judged her to be from the sounds of her breathing, but instead he saw himself. 

The camp was set up in a crescent of tents, at their center a pile of cushions and hassocks. And on the other side of that pile, at the mouth of the crescent, was the fire. Bull’s tent was at the end of one crescent arm. The Herald's was right beside his, which meant that the firelight shone in on his left flank and cast a shadow against the opposite wall, projecting his nakedness, in profile, to anyone sitting outside. 

The Herald wasn’t listening; she was watching.

Bull finished undressing as if he hadn’t noticed. Once he pulled his feet free from his pantlegs he rose into a kneel, his hips pushed forward. He paused to listen for any retreat or interruption on her part. None. 

So he plotted the next step. Privacy was almost impossible in camp, and Bull had robbed what little she’d had earlier that evening. It was only fair that he allowed her to return the favor.

He looked at his shadow from the corner of his eye, and gave his dick a slow, almost pensive tug. Then he let it drop. It bounced once, then pulsed lazily as his blood began to flow towards his groin. He flexed his pelvic floor a few times to hasten its growth.

Outside, a book closed shut around a quill. Not exactly quiet. Was she about to speak up and dissuade him, or maybe skitter away?

He gave her ample time to do so: shuffled some blankets around; pretended to look for a personal item; acted generally nonchalant. No developments. Sitting still and staying put, eyes on his body. _Alright then._ Bull then took a used rag from a corner of the tent, lay it flat on the ground in front of him, and grabbed his cock.

It was barely half-mast at this point, so he rolled his thumb and forefinger over its length a few times and gave it a few stretches until it was stiff enough to offer resistance. He spared a glance at his shadow once he’d grown to a decent length. His biceps were bulging with each tug, and his hips had begun to move in time with his hand. He was giving a good show. He hoped she appreciated it.

He squeezed his shaft. Hard. Hard enough that he felt a knot of pain in his belly. Hard enough that his eyes began to water. And he held his breath for three, two…

He let out an audible growl when he released and the blood pounded back into his cock. It swelled, filling out wrinkles as it did so, throbbing higher and higher with every heartbeat. _Fuck, that was good._

The Herald seemed to think so too, for she sucked a sharp breath in through her nose. He could almost _hear_ her biting her lip. He wrested back a laugh.

He held his cock in his hand, leaned forward, and let a fat globule of spit drip from his lip and land on his head. He had a whole collection of oils for this: flavored ones; warming ones; you name it, he had it. But rummaging around in a chest for five minutes wouldn’t be quite as theatrical. And besides, this wasn’t for him. 

Once the pain subsided and sensation returned to normal, he grabbed his cock again and began to stroke, spreading the spit from tip to base. The moisture made his motions a little loud, but the knowledge that she could hear it only excited him more.

He looked at his silhouette. The angle of the fire and of the tent wall distorted his shadow so that his dick, along with everything else below his waist, looked bigger than it was. Magnified like that, he could see every detail, down to the way his foreskin slipped back and forth over his cockhead as he pumped. And if he could see it, that meant she could see it too. His abdomen tightened and his head lolled back. He swallowed, and even that she could see; his adam’s apple bobbing. A hoarse sigh escaped his lips.

And then he opened his ears for a response: the sound of a hand sliding between fabric and someplace slick; or maybe some more of those cute tortured moans. Those could make his toes curl. Shit, he would have settled for some heavy breathing, but he was out of luck. Silence was his only answer. It looked like he was going to have to get him there himself. 

He spread his legs wider to stabilize his stance - his trick knee was starting to give him some trouble - and thought back on the past few weeks and all the tiny moments between them. They were subtle and brief, but they were there. When they first met, him sitting on barrel, eye level with her tits and drunk on victory. How she saw the way he looked at her and said nothing. Hired him anyway. How she almost choked on a swallow of mead the first time she’d heard him joke about his horns being leg rests. How she bit the inside of her cheek when she heard it every time after that. 

And then there was the guard house.

They were in the Hinterlands. The guards in question had all gone off in a hurry, responding to some commotion. Templars, mages, it was anyone’s guess. Blackwall was clearing the perimeter and Solas was probably off meditating or something. They stood together at the end of the common room table. Their lunch was still set out. She asked if he thought the guards would defeat whatever it was they’d left to fight. He’d said that they were likely already dead, and that, given the state of the roads, they were probably the only living souls within a square mile.

“Completely alone, then.” She’d looked at him.

There was a pause, and the air in that pause was thick with thoughts. They locked eyes and Bull couldn’t look away.

And then she’d said “...except a rift could open up any moment and vomit up some demons.” And that put a damper on things.

But what if she hadn’t said that? What if she’d said nothing, and he’d grabbed her by the neck and pinned her against the table? Shoved away the plates, let them shatter on the floor and send eggs and bread scattering? He spat on his cock again and imagined cutting her hose open with a bread knife from the table, grabbing for a jar of olive oil to pour over her, drench the folds of her cunt before he pushed himself in.

There was a sharpness to his pleasure now; a need. Pre-come oozed from the tip and dripped down to his fingers, mingling with his spit. His balls were tightening. He grabbed them as he stroked, pulled them away from his body. It was only a brief delay - the end was inevitable now - but rushing was poor showmanship.

She had the right kind of ass for fucking from behind. Lots of muscle from all that hiking, and lots of cushion from all that sitting in the circle tower. It wasn’t hard to picture how it would shake as he plunged into her at a reckless pace, rocking the table and making the cutlery rattle. She wouldn’t treat him with silence then; he’d make it impossible for her to be quiet. He’d grab her hair and pull, or maybe reach beneath her and pinch her clit until she whimpered, begged for release. Not from him, but from herself; from the Herald and her many duties. And he’d do it. With each jerk of his hips he’d stretch her to her limit and tear away layer upon layer of oppressive dignity, until she writhed and ground against him, her hair plastered to her sweaty skin.

She gasped. In real life, she gasped, and then let out a sound that wanted to be a moan, but was strangled into a grunt. Fingers clutched at sand in spasms. She was coming. Bull didn’t know exactly when she’d joined in the fun, but she’d caught up quick.

Anticipation frothed in the pit of his stomach and all sensation outside of his cock blurred. 

_If you finish at the same time, she’ll know you can hear her._

He’d meant it as a warning, but the thought only spurred him on to the finish line. He released his balls and moved both hands to his dick, one holding the base firm while the other glided easy over his head. And just as the Inquisitor started to recover from her orgasm - with deep shaky breaths - Bull was overtaken by his.

A chill ran down his spine and his hips bucked, and the first strand of come spurted from his cock, overshooting the cloth and landing on the rug that served for the floor. He lost his balance and lurched forward, catching himself on an elbow. More followed. He growled again and, determined to chase down the ecstasy, continued to fuck his hand, which was now wet with his come. He made it five, maybe six shuddering thrusts before he had to stop, ears ringing and nerves raw and burning.

He released himself and planted his other hand on the ground beneath him, and immediately grimaced as stray grains of sand stuck to his palm. He rested there for a moment, letting his breath catch up, before he straightened and wiped his sticky hand on his thigh. He turned to look in Tamsin's diectionr, and his shadow did the same.

There was a flurry of motion: a quill scraping against paper, falling to the ground; a foot tripping over a pillow; another foot pushing against sand; and - finally - the slap of a tent flap closing.

The Iron Bull let out a breathless laugh and sank onto his bedroll, flicking the stained rag away with the back of his hand. Sleep was coming up on him fast now, but before it did he had the time to wonder how this would all shake out in the morning.


End file.
